


Rusty's Kind of an Idiot

by bluerosele



Category: Ocean's (Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence, Drinking to Cope, F/M, Gen, M/M, Post-Ocean's 12, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 09:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3973723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluerosele/pseuds/bluerosele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Don’t Get Drunk on the Job. More importantly, Don’t Get Drunk on the Job for “Feely” Reasons. More so more importantly, Don’t Get Drunk on the Job for “Feely” Reasons that are Directly Correlated to and/or because Danny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rusty's Kind of an Idiot

Rusty’s kind of an idiot. 

It isn’t his fault, it’s Danny’s because when is it not? For a man with the words for everything he’s shit at using them sometimes. Those sometimes most often being times with Rusty. 

That isn’t exactly fair, Danny’s just as much a dumbass around Tess. That’s to be expected though, Tess is his wife (was, is, isn’t again, half-wife Rusty’s lost track). And despite what others might say and what Rusty himself bitches about he is not Danny Ocean’s wife. 

“Yes, you are.” Danny would say smiling his best shit eating grin because he knows how much Rusty hates him using it against him. Rusty would then throw whatever object was within reach, disregarding size/depth/price. It was worth reminding Danny some smile he had for a cheap cocktail waitress wouldn’t work on him. Usually. 

Danny wasn’t here though. It was just him. Alone in some ritzy hotel coverup for a casino and its dressed up trash, with two empty bottles of wine with a name and price long enough one felt obligated to like but never actually would. Danny was downstairs flirting with his divorced wife. Of-Fucking-Course. 

Here is where Rusty’s idiocy comes into play. He’s made rules for himself. Not many but a few, he has a brain, he isn’t Danny. A major one, not the major one, but relatively major major one he was currently breaking and soon be pissing. 

Don’t Get Drunk on the Job. More importantly, Don’t Get Drunk on the Job for “Feely” Reasons. More so more importantly, Don’t Get Drunk on the Job for “Feely” Reasons that are Directly Correlated to and/or because Danny. 

The last one especially. The last one had him on his ass next to the couch but not exactly on said couch getting teary watching Oprah. Which absolutely wasn’t happening again right now. 

Now, Rusty’s tolerance (alcoholic and otherwise) is limited but elastic. Meaning, he’s annoyed 97% of the time but is never quite pushed over the edge. 

That is, unless, Danny’s involved. 

He can still make out what Oprah’s yelling (as much as he usually can), and see little stars and blotches, and stand without falling over if he wanted (which he does not). But at the moment, tumbling downstairs and pushing Danny up against a slot machine and sucking his tongue out seems like a pretty okay idea. Which some phantom safety guard in his head that never quite turns off (despite previously mentioned elastic tolerance that’s been put on a bungee jump) feels like it isn’t, so he thanks whatever inhibitory comatose his body’s enforced. 

Danny will creep on Tess, Tess will ignore Danny until he tries to leave, and both will drive the other insane in intricate shows of irritated affection because they’re secretly lovestruck sixteen year olds. Just hormone addled kids whose minds never caught up with their bodies. Like everyone else in the group is. 

Rusty’s fucking tired of being the babysitter. 

Not to say he doesn’t love it also. Because he does. This is his life (however that happened) and if being the head of wisdom (which is just fucking sad, says a lot about the group really) is how he fits in then fine. At least he can fit in some way. 

He’s not the pinnacle of predictability though, no one is in this job despite how it’s exactly what and what not the job requires. He screwed up with Isabel. Relationship and operation stability wise. Because a casual romance had to be head Interpol agent focused primarily on a thief targeting Danny and in turn targeting Danny herself to track down said thief because original thief was an apprentice for her estranged thief master father who had also trained Danny causing an incestuous and explosive family conflict. 

Of. Fucking. Course. 

That had been entirely accidental though, and in the end Danny and Rusty fixed everything themselves. They united father and daughter, husband and wife, and Rusty lost everyone in the process. The overlaying plan for all plans followed through once again. 

Well, he was interrogated by Bruce Willis (which was kinda cool) and Tess was almost arrested (he finds himself laughing at the idea a little harder than he might without the alcohol intake) and the entire team was almost executed by a very sore loser (not so cool) but yeah everything had gone accordingly. It always did in some way or another. 

They got some money, Tess and Dany made up for like five seconds, and Rusty was left alone in the hotel room for an extra night. Simple plan, but constant. 

Rusty doesn’t mind the last part. He really loves hotels. They’re comfortable business intermediators with no empty expectations of domesticity. 

This was...sad. A little more sad than Rusty lets himself think about, until Oprah screams enthusiastically and he gets distracted. 

The clock under says 2:38 (he thinks there are more numbers and Oprahs than before) and he’s not tired but should go to sleep before he finds a phone or remembers how to use doors. It’s at this moment of realization Danny runs in. 

Of.

Fucking. 

Course. 

He sorta just pops in suddenly (the door opens and closes it’s really loud but he can’t process the door doing anything). His suit’s smooth and set, which is confusing because if Danny’s here Tess kicked him out and she’s not all that patient in those times. Seven years ago he once ran back to Rusty’s room clad only in underwear, socks, and terrified expression. Danny doesn’t ever present himself underdressed (even after one night stands with his wife) and to be exposed in such a literal sense had to have been traumatic for him. The boxers had little hearts. Rusty laughed hard. 

Danny jumps and looks around frantically. After checking the empty bedroom a little past the couch, he sees him. 

“Russ?” Danny whispers. Rusty giggles, Danny only calls him that when he’s worried. It means he wants help. Rusty loves helping Danny. He’ll never tell him but he does. 

Danny appears in front of him, crouched down looking freaked out which is wonderful. Pulling one over Danny doesn’t happen often. It’s nice to remind him he can. 

Rusty stops laughing, he remembers he’s upset with Danny for some reason, and makes a rather pathetic (even he recognizes it as such in this state) attempt at hitting him. Danny ducks slowly, without breaking eye contact (the bastard) and cups Rusty’s cheek. He does it to rotate his head, check for damage, but it’s nice and Rusty folds into it, happy again. 

“Jesus, Russ,” Danny doesn’t pull away, keeps his hand where it needs to stay. He flicks his thumb under Rusty’s eye and smiles. “I haven’t seen you this drunk in seventeen years.”

“You haven’t seen me much,” Rusty slurs. He’s not sure if he said anything at all. Danny’s face says he did. 

“This about Isabel?” There’s a weightless moment and everything’s flipped around. The floor’s gone, replaced by secure arms and chest and beating noise wrapping. He snuggles into Danny’s chest and hooks arms over his neck because he’s drunk and doesn’t have to lie about hating it when Danny touches him. 

“No.”

“You sure?”

That much he is. “Yeah.” He liked Isabel, he did, but he likes Danny more, would always like Dany more. 

Everything stops moving forward, and begins jostling about. Danny’s laughing. It reverberates in his chest through Rusty’s ears in his head down Rusty’s own body. Rolling his head around flopped back, unsupported by his relaxed bones and muscles, Rusty can see Danny looking at him like he does unlocked safes and codes and cases. He feels uncovered and hits Danny’s shoulder. 

“Wha’?” Danny continues on the trek to the bedroom. 

“She was right,” he answers more to himself and not Rusty at all. “She’s always right. Why didn’t you say something you idiot.” Rusty wants to hit him, but his arms are gone and Danny’s flung him onto the bed haphazardly. “We—” Danny’s fuzzy finger points to himself, Rusty, and back again. “Are talking about this in the morning. I’m waiting on the couch, I want to see how this Oprah ends.” And with that he’s gone, but Danny seemed pretty okay so all is well right now. 

Make sure Danny’s alright and the rest will work out on its own.


End file.
